Between the Lines
by Gilpin
Summary: Away on a solitary mission for the Order, Remus decides to send someone a ‘Wish you were here’ card. The consequences of which prove a lot more than both he and the recipient bargained for… Set during OotP. Co-written with Mrs Tater.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** **MrsTater and myself had so much fun writing our last joint endeavour, "_Up All Night",_ together that we decided to team up again, this time for something completely different. We decided to do an R/T story almost entirely by letters between them, with one of us writing as Remus and the other as Tonks. And this is the result...**

**Dedicated to Lisa for being the best writing partner ever. :)**

* * *

**Between the Lines**

Remus Lupin stared at the small brown owl who, tired of standing on one leg for several minutes with the other held out expectantly, decided to concentrate on tucking some errant tail feathers back into place instead.

"It's only a card, right?" he said aloud, fingering it doubtfully. He'd already smudged the ink, which dismayed him considerably, and he had no idea why a simple, spontaneous gesture had become such a major decision. Except that it was exceedingly rare nowadays that he afforded himself the luxury of making simple, spontaneous gestures, let alone to young witches he'd only known for a few weeks.

Still... His first instinct was that she'd appreciate it for exactly what it was. No more, no less. He wasn't quite sure whether that sounded reassuring or disappointing, but decided to settle firmly on the former.

The owl had cast him a brief glance and resumed its grooming.

"It's just a friendly gesture."

The owl carried on preening further south of the tail area.

"Not_ that_ friendly." Remus sighed heavily, which caused the owl to pause again, and roll the nearest eye at him in a way that reminded him of Moody.

"Hoo-oo."

"If you're saying that I'm making entirely too much of this, then you're absolutely right." Remus sighed again. "In a minute, I'll be asking you what you would do if you were me?"

The owl regarded him for a moment, head cocked to one side.

It hopped forward and held its leg out purposefully again.

* * *

A_ugust 14__th_, _3.40pm._

Dear T,

You may not be aware of this, but I'm away doing some volunteer work for the Phoenix family. Trying to alert people to a worthwhile cause in these difficult times that they may be unaware of. Or avoiding.

It's all been a little frustrating today; my fault, I'm sure. In search of peace and inspiration, I took a long walk alongside the lake in this beautiful part of the world, and passed a tiny café that sold postcards. Including this one. Whether it will actually reach you is slightly uncertain; my choice lay between an owl who has recently taken self-imposed retirement, or Olive here, who apparently has beauty but no great sense of direction. If she makes it, I'm assured that she'll remember you and your location forever if you happen to have a chocolate digestive or two going spare.

Best Wishes,

R.

I'm certainly not implying that I will be bombarding you with any more cards. I know we haven't known each other that long but, as they say, I saw this and thought of you.

* * *

14/08/95

9.15 PM

Wotcher, R!

Your postcard took me by extremely pleasant surprise! (Not very constantly vigilant of me, huh?) I had to think for a minute whose name I know starts with R. Hope I wasn't meant to reply to a certain gargantuan member of the family, haha!

You lucky git! Why don't I ever get to volunteer for the ace jobs? Lakeside view, wow! Only I'm not sure I believe you were thinking of me so much as rubbing my nose in it that I'm still sat in my cubicle (note my very professional, pale blue embossed parchment, except for the pumpkin juice stain in the corner) reading boring-as-Binns files for anything that might be helpful to the Phoenix family. Even my Kirley McCormack Duke poster's lost some of its shirtless lustre in comparison to the glow of the sunset on the water. Although I have found a new hair colour in the postcard, which I don't think makes me look too peaky.

All the same, even though I'm green with envy that you're in such a great location (bet I'm the only person you know who literally could be), I hope tomorrow's luckier for you. Being the sanest and most socially adept of the family, if you can't make some headway, none of us can.

How long will you be away? Only I may need to restock my stash of McVitie's, as your owl is gorging herself.

Take care,

T.

* * *

_August 15__th__, 5.30pm._

Dear T,

Am glad to hear the card met with your approval – I hoped your eyes would concentrate on the beautiful sunset over the water, and not what those ducks were getting up to in the foreground. I was rather thinking you might like that shade of pink, but isn't 'going green' always to be encouraged?

I know I said I wasn't going to trouble you again, but I wanted to thank you for your kind and encouraging words. I am slightly concerned that you think I am the most socially adept member of the family. (Uncle Alastor did once lend me an interesting book entitled 'Beware of the Open Invitation', and I took note of many things. Before remembering that I then had to eat those notes to be vigilant.) But I think my concern in this case is whether I am the right man for the job. However, today has been more promising, I hope, and I can extend my planned week's stay if necessary. Though I do worry about a friend at home who has difficulty getting out and about these days; I may ask Cousin Arthur to call on him and see if he needs anything.

I'm afraid I simply couldn't resist the picture of this goat, which I thought another family member might approve of. Sincere apologies for the joke. I hope it doesn't put your poster even more into the shade on the wall!

Best Wishes,

R.

P.S Olive obviously enjoyed making your acquaintance because she seems very keen to remind me of her existence by thoughtfully leaving pellets in my shoes at every opportunity. Not so much dogging my footsteps as owling them?

* * *

15/08/95, 11.45 PM

R,

Am I the only one you're writing to, or is your Inner Eye especially clear today? At tonight's family reunion, Cousin Abe announced that starting this week, Thursday nights are going to be Blues Night at the Hog's Head. Pity he didn't ask for my musical input and go for Metal Mondays, as then he really could've got Billy Idol instead of making lame jokes about unemployed goats. But no one ever asks me, and as the joke on the outside of the card was marginally funnier than that crap about Olive owling your footsteps (you see, you're not the only punny one, Romulus), I've given your card a place of honour on my cubicle wall, next to Kirley's bare chest. I can't say broader, or hairier, than that.

Glad I was able to make you feel a little better, but you don't have to thank me, you know. I'm only stating facts. And you don't have to apologise for writing, either. Trouble's what I nearly got in when a note dropped out of one of the files I nicked last night and the cleaning witch unhelpfully put it back on the boss' desk. And Trouble's the middle name of our mutual shut-in friend who begged me to take him for a walk when I popped in at lunch, and I'm damned if he doesn't make the best puppy-dog eyes you ever saw. So after a day like that, a daft goat joke was just what I needed to make me feel pink again.

Only I wish you wouldn't say things that imply you're less of a man than any other. Think about who we've got in the Phoenix family! Seriously, you're so much more than that furry little problem, and other people will see it. And I hope they see it quickly, because I'm not keen on the idea of you extending your stay. When I said you're the most socially adept member of the family, I meant it. There's certainly no one else I'd even think of asking to go with me next Thursday to hear Billy Idol and his All Out-Of-Work Goat Blues Band?!

Good luck,

T.

x

PS - If Olive's in a snit when she arrives, it's because I've cut down on the McVitie's tonight for the sake of your shoes. I've tried to explain to her that it won't help you win friends and influence people if you smell like chocolate digestive pellets, but she blinked at me as if I was quite mad, and I reckon to an owl, I am.

* * *

_16__th__ August, 9.15am_

Dear T,

As you liked my goat card so much, I've decided to treat you to another, with an even better joke. (Un)luckily for you, this shop has a seemingly inexhaustible supply. You must ask Cousin Abe what he calls an outlaw goat, and see if he comes up with Billy the Kid as well. Though I'm dying to know what the goats will make of Blues Night and trying, for the sake of my sanity, not to imagine a unique rendition of "Singin' the Bleats_…"_

You do make me feel better, you know (and it's not just the thought that I'm currently outshining Kirley's chest on your wall), and it seems to have changed my luck as I've been invited to dinner tonight with some people who I think might well have causes sympathetic to those of the Phoenixes. They also have some useful contacts and - well, we'll see how it goes. But I'm more hopeful than I have been since I got here. I'm very grateful to you for calling on my housebound friend, though I hope you resisted those beseeching eyes and told him that fresh air can be detrimental to your health. If it's not too much trouble, and you do get chance to call again, I know he would enjoy a game of Exploding Snap, a jug of cider with a pretty girl, and a chance to reminisce about happier times. (He's probably got a few goat jokes too, even if he tends to specialise in dog ones. Never ask him about distemper.)

I'm half inclined to call your bluff and take you up on the Blues Night out! Though you'd never explain to family or friends what you were doing with me as your date, while I'd probably have to spend all my time fighting off Kirley look-alikes and their chests. Sadly, you can see why it would never work between us!

PLEASE be careful with those files. Your boss is no fool, and nor are your colleagues. If you're there so late that the cleaning witch is around it won't take much to make him wonder why.

I worry about you. Why aren't you out enjoying yourself in the evenings?

R.

x

Poor Olive has not even had time to think of pellet dropping as I was keen to get this to you before tonight. She'll probably need a lot of TLC (Tender Loving Chocolate) to recover.

Do hope you can read all this. I seem to have crammed a ridiculous amount onto one small postcard…

* * *

16/08/95

3.35 PM

R,

It took a Chicken-Scratch Deciphering Spell, but in the end I managed to make out everything you crammed onto that last postcard. Have you heard of this useful little paper product called stationery, or is taking joined-up writing to new levels of, well, joined-upness Uncle Alastor's latest security soapbox? As the latter seems most likely, I went shopping for a goat card of my very own to see how much I could get onto one. I can't decide whether I want you to be more impressed with the joke, or amazed at my spellwork to make the writing appear and enlarge as you skim down the page.

Only I think now I've decided I wish I'd never seen this damn card and stuck with office stationery, instead. At lunch today I popped over to take our housebound friend some fish and chips, and asked him what you'd call a lip-synching goat? All I got when I said Billy Vanilli was a blank stare, and I could've hexed myself into oblivion for not realising he was hardly up on the music scene when Milli Vanilli were popular. Why don't I think? I felt so awful I asked him to tell me about distemper, though he wasn't really in the mood as I'd also just refused - again - to take him to the park for a game of Fanged Frisbee. Isn't there some way we could get him out? Even an hour would do him so much good.

I'm sorry, it's not fair to unload on you like that when you've got more than your share on your mind. It's just so bloody frustrating how tied our hands are! I spent my entire morning break listening to a member of the Royal Family vent about having to play dog-catcher while there's real animals on the loose, and I'm afraid it got to me.

Also, it's taken me four attempts to write this, as I'm continually interrupted. I finally resorted to locking myself in the ladies' loo, which is probably all-too apt considering all our talk about owl droppings...

But I just had to let you hear from me before your dinner. I've got everything crossed for you. Even though I know you don't need silly superstitious gestures. You'll succeed on your own merit, I know you will, and I'll be the most envied girl at the Hog's Head on Blues Night. It's me who'll have to be using my Defence Against the Female Arts training to keep Kirley's date away from you once she realises how over-rated tattooed chests are. Although you may not want to be seen with the member of the Phoenix family who perpetually goes about with two left feet stuffed into her mouth, not to mention the stupid hair colours.

Some cross-legged, desperate soul's about to blast the loo door down, so I'd better close. Please write me as soon as you can tonight, to tell me about your dinner. I'll actually be at home - well, at our friend's house, if he'll open the door to me after my balls-up - so you don't have to worry through the meal about me having another close call. Although there's something nice about knowing someone out there does worry about me, even if it's to do with the fact that it's not just me any mistakes put at risk. Still, we've got to be optimistic where we can, haven't we? I'll sleep so much better if I have good news from you before bed.

Now I'm really going so I can make good on my promise to cross my fingers for you!

T.

X

PS - Just got back to my desk to find old Olive raiding my chocolate stash. Put an Impervius Charm on your shoes tonight. Assuming she can get to you at all. Did you know a nine-stone person can get high from eating twenty-five pounds of chocolate? What's that work out to for owls, I wonder? And does it make any difference if the chocolate's Honeyduke's Best? Not that anyone could eat that much chocolate without getting sick. Which Olive definitely looks to be...

PPS - You wouldn't know a useful little spell for getting owl sick off a Weird Sisters poster, would you?

PPPS - Please tell me you haven't got any tattoos on your chest??

* * *

_17__th__ August, 02.55am_

Dear T,

Am devastated to learn you're not keen on men with tattooed chests. Fortunately, I have a few more days to find a specialist up here who can suggest some way to cover up my— Well, a gentleman never says, obviously.

Following your subtle hints, I have begged some parchment off my landlady, Mrs C, who may have got slightly the wrong idea when I said I was writing to a young lady. She insists that it's purely my imagination that I can detect a whiff of sandalwood about this – it appears that Mr C is away travelling, but his cologne isn't – and wants to know all about you. I only wish I could tell her, that you could meet her and her amazing sticky toffee pudding (I do wonder if she's related in some distant way to our good friend Milly), and see the dinner portions she gives me, which has not helped my popularity status with her other lodgers. She's asked if there's any way "my young lady" (sorry!) could be here on Friday which, apparently, is when a ritual known as "Up the Duff" night takes place. Before you get extremely worried, and never write a word to me again, I am assured that it's something to do with the evening meal…

Oh, it did take me a while to get to your subtle hints, by the way – at least ten minutes to persuade Olive to hand them over as she was swaying too much. Suffice it to say, I am currently working on the owl vomit spell myself. Consequently you've just met Bregawn, who Mrs C insisted on lending to me as soon as she became aware of the situation, and the biscuit hangover is currently being slept off in my cupboard. Good job I have no clothes I need to worry about.

I'm keeping you waiting with news about tonight's dinner, mainly because I made myself write a formal report to Uncle Alastor first, as I should. But walking back home in the dark tonight, I was looking forward all the while to telling you, and it's wonderful to be able to say that it went even better than I hoped. And to say the things that I haven't to him – that they seem to trust me, and what I'm telling them, and I've kept no secrets about myself from them. I want them to see that you can be accepted for who you are (they have some fears themselves in that area due to a relative's associations in the past), and that we need to unite at this time. They've understandably asked to think things over and see me again tomorrow, but I'm quietly confident. Hence this letter sent at a really ridiculous hour, but I hope you'll forgive me for what will undoubtedly be an early morning wake-up call?

I also owe you thanks for visiting my housebound friend again; you may not think you're helping him, but I've had a short note from him (and he's notoriously bad at putting quill to parchment) and you are. He's called you "the cheeky minx who eats all my crisps" and, believe me, that's high praise indeed. If – and only if – you get chance to go again, ask him to tell you the story of the time he took McGonagall's dressing gown and slippers as a joke…and then got caught by her whilst doing an impromptu fashion parade in our dorm. The curlers probably weren't a good idea. He'll enjoy that one, as he would the tales of a certain notorious criminal, who is reported in today's local paper as being sighted here in recent days and we're all asked to keep a look out. He apparently walks the hills at night, cunningly disguised as a shepherd looking for his flock (I blame the dog herding instinct myself). Oddly enough, he's only ever been seen by some stalwarts of the local pub as they make their weary way home…

As I sadly won't be able to show you the wonderful scenery here – and there's so much I'd love you to see - perhaps a 'thank you' drink for all that you've done at the Hog's Head on Blues Night will be a small consolation? I promise to step aside the minute I see Kirley or anyone else approaching to carry you off, but until then I assure you that I will easily be the most envied man in the room. Especially if you wear your hair that sunset pink.

Take care of yourself, T. And you've never yet made a mistake that I know of. (Apart from the odd plate smashing incident we won't mention because I still find it hard to believe my innocent remark made you jump so. No one should have a china pattern like that anyway.)

R.

X

I'm told Bregawn is a fan of bacon rind, which may be handy for breakfast. Just make sure we don't put two owls out of commission at the same time.

I'm afraid I'm all out of goat jokes. Unless I'm pulling the wool over your eyes, of course...

* * *

17/08/05

5.30 AM

Dear R,

Don't be alarmed at the early hour - Bregawn didn't wake me, I was already up. Long story, but I got called in for a night duty and only just got home. I'm dead on my feet, so please forgive any spelling mistakes and general incoherence in this note.

The good news is, I've got an unexpected day off, so as soon as I finish this and have some breakfast (good job I stopped at the shops on my way home and got a slab of bacon!) I'll cast a Darkness Spell in my flat and sleep the day away, which is perfect, as I've got a big night tonight. (You see? I do, occasionally, have something resembling a life.) One of my old schoolmates is in town, and we're meeting up for a drink. He's got the coolest job ever- PR manager for the Weird Sisters - and always was the loveliest bloke, so it'll be great to see him, not least of all because he's got access to this really posh new club, The Grindylow Tank, which has its own (hopefully) Grindylow-free swimming pool, and I can try to charm concert tickets out of him!

Although, I'm not sure "Up the Duff" night with your landlady might not make for a more interesting cultural experience. Perhaps even outdoing Blues Night at the Hog's Head, so maybe you ought to extend your stay after all, and we can compare notes. Be a shame to miss out, especially after Mrs C's given you all the preferential treatment and stuffed you full of sticky toffee pudding, and it might be just the thing to celebrate a successful branching out of the Phoenix family tree!

Which I'm so happy to hear about! I felt like I was holding my breath all night during my shift, though of course when I read your letter I wasn't a bit surprised. (Well done with the stationery, by the way; I'd never have taken you for a sandalwood bloke.) You're a sheep in wolf's clothing (Do sheep jokes count?) and there are good people in this world who can look at the inside of people, at what counts. People like that will change the world. I am curious to know about their situation. Uncle Alastor would probably let me take a peek at the report you sent him, but I'd rather hear it from you.

Just as I think I'd rather hear the story of our mutual friend dressing in McGonagall drag from you! So prepare yourself to be in top storyteller form on Blues Night, as I've a feeling we'll need a bit of distraction from what's taking place on stage!

Right. Bregawn's begging for bacon, the brain has abruptly decided to stop producing anything like logical thought, and I've already dozed off twice writing this and narrowly escaped drooling on my parchment -- all signs that I shouldn't be trying to do this writing lark! Especially if I want to get to you before your dinner, to wish you all the luck in the world I know you don't need.

Yours yawnily,

T.

X

PS - You. Are. A. Git. Even though you're right, and I was nobly saving Auntie Tuney from a truly horrific china pattern.

PPS - I know you're just taking the piss about chest tattoos. You are so not the type.

* * *

_17__th__ August, 6.05pm._

Dear T,

Apologies for keeping you waiting for news, but I'm in that position myself. You'll have seen this morning's papers, no doubt, and the announcement from a certain Ministerial department regarding their intention to pursue a policy of "Positive Discrimination" in the future against Dark Creatures. It's all carefully worded, but followed by "Safety for your family first, apologies for mistaken identity can always be given later," whichspeaks volumes for the direction this is going.

Of course, it couldn't have come at a worse time. I met my contact at lunch time and he's asked for more time to think. What can I say? I've given all the reasoned, logical arguments again, he agrees with them, but I can see the doubt in his eyes purely because it is me saying the words. Frankly, it's hard to blame him.

I hope this doesn't sound too depressing. I'm probably making far too much of this and being needlessly pessimistic.

Enjoy your evening out, and I look forward to hearing about it!

R.

X

I don't think sandalwood is quite me, either, but it's defying every spell I can think of. Even the owl is starting to whiff a bit now…

* * *

18/8/95

4.10 AM

God, I can't believe I stayed out till four bloody AM. I'm going to be absolutely cream-crackered for my shift, but that's what Pick-Me-Up Potions are for, isn't it? That and helping you focus properly, I hope. And The Grindylow Tank was well worth it. You just can't get in there unless you're somebody, or know somebody, or are somebody's somebody, but Nick's both, or all three, and thanks to him I can now claim to be one of the elite few in England who's swum with the Grindylows!!

They weren't actual Grindylows, just a clever little spell, but Nick sure as hell thought they were real Grindylows, and I've never laughed harder than when I was watching him try to remember what we learnt in DADA about how to dispatch the little buggers. Which, in his defence, wasn't much, as we didn't have the good fortune of having you for a teacher, and it was also probably a bit hard to concentrate when I was right there fighting to keep my bikini top on. It was a really clever little spell, the faux Grindylows. You felt those long fingers grabbing at your legs under the water, though I'd have preferred it to be an entirely different set of long fingers trying to untie my bikini top...

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I've got to find a way to get us back to the club, as they serve the most heavenly chocolate martini, three of which are directly responsible for my sounding just a tiny bit tipsy here. Or a lot tipsy, which probably also explains the embarrassing moment with the drain on the way home. Though I'm sure the drain's okay. I think I'm going to know pretty soon how our poor friend Olive felt the other night after her bout of over-indulging.

But until that glorious day, you'll just have to brace yourself because...Nick came through for me with Weird Sisters tickets! Two Weird Sisters tickets! For next Thursday! Front row seats!! BACKSTAGE PASSES!! I hope you won't be too disappointed, but unmatchable as Blues Night at the Hog's Head will be, even I can't say no to getting up close and personal with Kirley's tattooed chest, gleaming with sweat in the stage lights. Maybe if I brave the mosh pit, I'll get to touch him...

I owe Nick big for this. He's so sweet, underneath all that hair, and he did show me a couple of actual tattoos! (Bet you can't beat that, Romulus!) He's very good-looking too, and girls were drooling over him from afar and eyeing me with envy, and...

Isn't it funny how it's never who you imagine it will be who makes your blood fizz and your heart pound? Maybe it's because I feel so much older lately, but all I want now is someone who'll take my hand when I hold it out, holds it hard, and accepts me for what I am and we talk. About anything we fancy. I tell him bits about me I don't tell anyone else, like my hopes and fears, and he does the same and we hold onto those too. Because we want to share everything.

God, I'm rambling, aren't I? Mucho apologies, and I'll never look a chocolate martini in the glass again!

Maybe you can help me think of something suitable to say thanks to ever so lovely Nick, including Grindylow fighting tips from Professor L. I'll expect to have had something from you by the time I get out of bed at 7.53, the latest possible minute I can get up and still make it to work on time. And now to sleep, if I've any hope of not jeopardising the Phoenix clan tomorrow. Can't let all that faith you've got in me be misplaced!

This is my neighbour's owl, Marmalade. Who'll expect to be fed accordingly? I'm told he likes orange best, but lime'll do.

T.

XXXX (Because three just looks naughty and you're so very, very nice, R. But are you naughty, that's what I want to know??)

* * *

_18__th__ August, 6.55am._

Dear T,

Am delighted to hear you had such an entertaining and enjoyable night out with your friend. It soon became obvious from reading about him that tattoos in many places were a colourful and foregone conclusion. I am somewhat surprised that lovely Nick isn't more your intellectual equal but, as you say, there's no accounting for taste in matters of the heart. I wish you both all the best.

I'm still waiting to hear any news. However, it is not your worry, and I should never have burdened you in the first place, so please don't give it another thought.

Your friend,

R.

* * *

_18__th__ August, 7.00am._

T,

I'm so very sorry about the tone of that last letter. I did try to call the owl back, but was too late. I am worried, but that's absolutely no excuse for taking my frustrations out on you when you have been – in your words – very much a friend to hold onto and share my thoughts with all this week, and I am so very grateful for that. You have no idea how much it has meant to me. I would hate you to think that reading some people's misguided thoughts in the newspaper was bringing out the worst in me.

Forgive me. I do, of course, wish the very best for you, and that was the one thing I said which I wouldn't take back if I could.

Your friend,

R.

xxx

Is Olive all right as you used your neighbour's owl again? I thought she seemed fully recovered when I sent her, but you didn't mention if she wasn't up to the flight back?

* * *

18/8/95 , 9.30 AM

R,

There's so much I need to tell you, to explain, that I hardly know where to begin.

I hardly know how to feel. On the one hand I could hex myself into oblivion for not taking the time to read the Prophet yesterday, for not looking for an owl from you when I got home slast night/s this morning, and most of all for writing to you under the influence. On the other, I'm cheesed off that after everything we've said to each other this week, you automatically assumed I was more concerned about clubbing than about the work you're doing, or about your feelings. Even though that's completely unfair of me, as I don't doubt that whatever the hell I wrote in my drunken state must have read completely different to what I meant to say. Just as I'm sure that if it were me who was the object of "positive bloody discrimination", I'd be inclined to take things the wrong way, too.

So of course I forgive you, Romulus. You're my friend. And, I hope...Well, first things first.

As I said, I didn't get around to yesterday's paper as I was sleeping off my night shift, though if I had, I definitely wouldn't have gone to The Grindylow Tank. If I hadn't gone out, I'd have got your owl, but as things stand, I'd already gone before Olive turned up, so I'd no idea about your crap day. And I missed her when I got home from the club, because, as I discovered this morning when I got up to brew my Pick-Me-Up Potion, she'd helped herself to the McVitie's and got herself trapped in the cupboard. I found her passed out in another chocolate stupor, which is why we're back to Bregawn. After I'd found Bregawn and Marmalade sitting talon-by-talon, and been befuddled by the two notes you sent this morning, which sounded so unlike you I had a fit of paranoia worthy of Uncle Alastor.

But oh, R...I've been sat here staring at this parchment for the past hour trying to think of the right thing to say about your situation, and there's just...nothing. Except that I hate that horrible pink piece of shit, and if she crosses my path today, she'll learn the true meaning of 'positive discrimination'. And maybe the negative kind, too. Lest you worry that I might do something brash, don't. I'm on my best behaviour, keeping clear of certain wings of the building and the toads who work there.

I only wish there was something I could do. Is there? For you? Because you must know I'd drop everything, if only you say the word. Whether it's speaking to your contact, vouching for your character, or just metaphorically holding your hand as we take a walk alongside the lake for peace and inspiration. Whatever you need of me, I'll do, I'll be.

I know what it is to be alone, to ask what can one person do? I was both; I was asking that very question, the night your first postcard came. But hearing from you, writing to you, changed everything. I had a piece of you here in my hands, tucked into my pocket as I went about my work. All the thoughts I stored up during my days were for you, my dear...friend.

That's why it hurt so much to read you wish me happy with Nick. Don't you see? The first thing I did when I got home from The Grindylow Tank was write to you. It was my only thought. And yes, I'd drunk three chocolate martinis and was bloody lucky to have one coherent thought at all, but it's not about that. It's about me wanting all night to share it with you. I didn't care that it was Nick who got me into an elite club, or that I was the envy of every platinum blonde boob job because I was with him. What I wanted was to experience a swimming pool full of fake Grindylows with the man who's been sending me corny goat jokes, to see the world's biggest chocolate addict's look of ecstasy when he tasted a chocolate martini, to walk home on the arm of a man who'd have kept me well out the way of that drain. Just like next Thursday I want it to be him next to me on the front row of the Weird Sisters, keeping me from doing myself a mischief in the mosh pit, standing calmly amid the crowd commenting that even Blues Night at the Hog's Head couldn't match this experience, and surprising me with a fake tattoo on his chest to distract me from Kirley backstage.

I thought I'd made all that so clear to you in my letters. I thought you'd read between the lines and know that it's not Nick, or Kirley, or anyone who makes my blood fizz but you. And I thought you felt the same. You did mean it when you said you wished I could meet Mrs. C and try her sticky toffee pudding and see the lovely scenery, didn't you? You really asked me to Blues Night? I'd give up my Weird Sisters tickets in a heartbeat if only we could get back to that.

I realise all this might be the very least of your troubles right now. If I've been wrong about you, I hope we can salvage our friendship, because it's one to hold on to. At least you can show this letter to your contact, as proof of how implicitly someone trusts you.

I hope you have good news today, but if not...you've got me. Always.

Your

N.

xxx (Because you meant that, too, didn't you?)

* * *

_August 18__th__, 11.30am._

N,

I really don't know what to say. Except that I'm so very sorry for so much.

Firstly, I must tell you that I've met with my contact once more, and that their agreement to help the family looks as though it still stands. We have mutually decided that I will no longer be their direct contact for the future after this – which, if I am honest, smarts a little, but is perfectly understandable – and at least I am now hopeful of achieving something worthwhile during my time here.

None of which counts for very much compared with the hurt I have caused you. s#/s You can probably tell from the blot on the parchment that I've thought long and hard over what to say next - I was originally going to make another goat joke to try and get us back to where we once were; I was going to offer to tell you the truth about my tattoo as penance; I was even going to tease you with what I've found out about "Up The Duff" night on Friday. I was going to say quite a lot of things, really, all of them light and flippant, and all of them neatly avoiding everything you've had the courage to say.

I'm not sure what I was thinking when I sent you that first card but we seem to have said a great deal in a very short space of time. I haven't said enough though. I know I was thinking of the girl who, when we first met, said: "Werewolf's only a word, you know. It doesn't tell me anything about what you're like as a person. You'll have to do all that for yourself." So I'll tell you so you will have no illusions about this. You are very different to me – you've never walked away from anything, or not faced up to anything, and you wouldn't because you're N- T- and it wouldn't even occur to you to do such a thing. But I see the world through the eyes of someone who has done all those things and therefore knows it's a place where people do it all the time to each other. Because of ignorance, or stupidity, or greed or… fear.

It was fear that made me send that reply to you. The sudden realisation when you spoke about Nick that here was what seemed to be the perfect, able-bodied young man for you, who had a history I could never share and perhaps even a future too. What you should have and deserve. My only defence is that I never imagined for one minute that you were talking about me instead.

But I would be lying if I didn't say I had been trying to read between the lines before that. I've done a great deal of work like this over the years and the vast majority of it has been alone. I'd thought I was used to it, but you have no idea how much it has meant being able to share it with someone who understands, and doesn't need long-winded explanations, but is there waiting as a friend to tell about my day. And I want to hear about hers in return.

Many times during this week I've wished you were here to see something with me, or laugh at something, and I wish it now most of all. If I haven't totally ruined everything, is there any way you can be here for Friday evening? I'll still be finalising things for the next couple of days, and I think I can safely say that Mrs C will be overwhelmingly - and embarrassingly - delighted to meet you.

But not as delighted as I will be should you decide to come.

R.

xxx

And, yes, I did mean it.

* * *

18/08/95

2.00 PM

Dear R,

Great news about the family's new help, only I hope Great-Uncle Bumblebee doesn't ask me to be the primary contact, as I'm not sure I could muster much cordiality. Or maybe I do hope Great-Uncle Bumblebee asks me, so I can quote myself on werewolf being just a word that doesn't tell anything about what a bloke's like as a person, and surely since they've spent time with you, they know very well what you're like as a person and surely they won't let a silly word get in the way of that? Because I wouldn't. I don't. I do, however, hex people into oblivion...

Maybe it'll take some of the sting out if I tell you I'd be overwhelmingly and embarrassingly delighted to come to "Up the Duff Night" as 'your young lady' on Friday. I'll make my Royal friend swear to cover for me if anything comes up. You'll know me by my sunset pink hair and irresistible personality.

Can't wait! Tell Mrs. C to get those sticky toffee puddings ready!

T.

xxx

PS - I still want the truth about your tattoo. Even though I know it's that you don't have one.

PPS - And don't call me N!!

* * *

**_We very much hope you enjoyed this and, even more, that you'll let us know if you did as there is a Part II to come... If you're interested in seeing the postcards and some of the actual letters referred to in this, there is a graphic version to be found at both my LJ and Mrs Tater's. If you click on the homepage on my profile page, it should take you there. In the meantime, reviewers get to share a wonderful sticky toffee pudding with Remus. ;)_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's** **Note: This story is co-written with MrsTater and back in May 2008 (cue embarrassed coughing from us both), we wrote the first half of it. As we definitely had to refresh our memories as to whereabouts and what our busy letter writing duo were up to in order to complete this second half of the story, we'd recommend a quick run-through of it, if you can spare the time. Otherwise, Remus, away on a secret Order mission, sent Tonks a postcard, which led to friendship, flirting, awful jokes and, eventually, tentative romance by owl post. Misunderstandings and ink blots were plentiful, but Part I ended with Remus plucking up courage to invite her to come and spend an evening with him at the house where he's lodging for the local 'Up the Duff' night, which is a celebration of food for anyone already thinking the rating on this should be higher. The story resumes with Tonks having just returned home after that evening, and as before, it's a fic mostly by letter. Anyone wanting to see the postcards etc. referred to in the text, can click on the homepage on my profile, which will take you to my Fic Journal at LJ and...all should be revealed!**

**Dedicated to Lisa, best writing partner ever. :)**

* * *

**Between the Lines**

**Part II**

22/08/95

1.25 AM

Dear R,

I know it's late -- or early! -- and I've got a shift at 7.00, but despite being stuffed full to the gills, I'm not the slightest bit sleepy. You'll probably accuse me again of cheating, but I'll persist with what I've said a million times: I did not morph my stomach so I could eat more! Your tender male chocoholic ego is just bruised that you didn't make it past the cheesecake and didn't get to try any of the chocolate fudge cake. Not to say, "I told you so" or anything, but I told you you shouldn't have gone for second helpings of the spicy plum crumble...

Lest you think I'm only writing to rub your nose in it and you decide to let me find another date to the Weird Sisters next Thursday, I'll say what I really got out the stationery to say:

Tonight was the loveliest night out I've had in...well, ever. Up the Duff night is an experience I'll never forget, even if my waistline does go back to its usual size. Who'd have thought a dinner menu consisting entirely of six scrumptious desserts could be so great? As well as the late August sunset over the lake being even more breathtaking in person than in the postcard. (I'm working on re-enacting it with my hair, so you'll have something to remember it by.)

Of course the very best part was the company – and I'm not talking about Mrs. C, even though she ranks high on my list of favourite people for going on about my personality and saying I was just the sort of pretty young lady she'd imagined for you (I realise this might not have been quite as much of a compliment to you as it was for me!) – and most of all for her giving me an extra large slice of the chocolate cake (sorry!) because she knew I felt awful for breaking her sugar bowl (which really deserved a better fate than Auntie Tuney's plate). There's nothing about the night (except for the bowl smashing incident, for which I blame you anyway) I'd change at all.

Although I am so sorry about you-know-what...

Off to sleep now. It'll make the time go faster -- not that I'm looking forward to my shift. Only to seeing you again.

Your young lady,

T

Xxx

* * *

August 22nd, 1995

9.30am

Dear N~,

Thank you for letting me know of your safe return. Not having Uncle Alastor on hand, I was unable to check if the previous maximum weight limits for secure Apparating still applied. And after the amount you'd recently consumed, I was somewhat concerned that you weren't so much risking splinching yourself as doubling up somewhere…

Yes, I am imagining that face you're pulling; it's probably similar to mine when you polished off that last piece of fudge cake and asked if there was any more clotted cream or custard going spare? In my defence at only reaching dessert number four and a half out of six – and I do think Up the Duff Night is aptly named, as I came as close to feeling like I'd eaten for two by the end of it as I hope I ever do – it was quite obvious that you a) had an unfair advantage to begin with, and b) I did not have two helpings of the spicy plum crumble. At least, not willingly. For some reason, Mrs. C~ is under the misguided impression that I need to keep my strength up at all times. Of course, she has now met 'My young lady,' so possibly there is method in her muffin madness.

Before you're the one wanting a new date on Thursday (no offence, but my vote is still for Blues Night with the goats as the ultimate cultural experience), let me say I am so glad you came and that the time seemed to fly by. I'm just back from a walk down by the lake again. I sat on the bench where we ate those crisps -- something savoury really was the most wonderful thing ever at that point; I've had to take the coward's way out and skip breakfast altogether, as I can't contemplate looking a sausage in the face. Or the skin.

I know we started many conversations last night, but we did seem to keep interrupting ourselves and going onto something else. (Don't worry about the sugar bowl, by the way. Mrs. C~ says it was a wedding present from her mother-in-law, and she's been looking for an excuse to throw it and the singing sugar tongs away for the last twenty-seven years.) I never did find out what made you want to go into your line of work. Did you ever think of doing anything else? And, as I was saying when the sugar bowl hit the floor, it's such a pity you couldn't have stayed longer so that I could have shown you The Dundee Shuffle, as I'm sure you'd have enjoyed it. Presumably you misheard what I said…

It's obvious that Mrs. C~ is as taken with you as you were with her. She's told me at least a dozen times that it's a grand sign when a young lady can eat like that and laugh at the same time, and a few other ear-burning things you'll have to find some way to bribe out of me. I'm not sure you'll appreciate the one about the T-shirt, though. Meanwhile, I must be getting on with my final report to Uncle Alastor, who has been relegated to second place in order of priority this morning.

I'm going to be here for the rest of the day finalising arrangements and also delivering something to an acquaintance whom Great-uncle Bumblebee wants reminded of a favour he owes the family. I hope to be back some time tomorrow, but you must have plans for the weekend so I won't owl you then.

It seems very quiet here without you.

R~

x

You realise you never once asked to see my tattoo all the time you were here? I was a little saddened, I must admit, but I suppose it can't compare with Kirley's Egyptian eyes as you described them. Do the Ministry not censor what you have on your wall?

If anyone should apologise about you-know-what, it's me. Please don't think I didn't take it as it was meant – as a friendly gesture. We won't give it another thought.

* * *

22/08/95

10.45 PM

Dear R,

First off, what have I told you about calling me N? Maybe you misunderstood? Coz I'm pretty sure I said not to do it.

Second, you only wish you'd been able to eat enough to push the maximum weight limit for secure Apparating, and third, you're a bloody lucky git that 'your young lady' has a sense of humour about jokes like that. (It helps that I can pull faces of disgust you couldn't possibly imagine.)

Sorry you're hearing back from me so late. Had one of those days that makes me ask myself that same question of why I chose this line of work. I think it had something to do with to do with being ace at Potions and DADA, along with having spent the first seven years of my life afraid of my mad Auntie Trixie and then idolising Uncle Alastor for locking her up and throwing away the key. Having only got home fifteen minutes ago with a Chinese takeaway (first chance I've had to eat all day -- and how's your stomach, by the way? Did you muster up enough Gryffindor courage to face Mrs. C for a hearty dinner?), I'm seriously regretting giving up my dream of becoming a Weird Sisters roadie. Maybe next Thursday after the concert I'll run away with them. Hell, even working for Cousin Abe as Blues Night concert manager would be preferable to what I had to put up with today. Just think -- I could probably get us in free every Thursday. Only then you'd have to get tattoos for sure.

Talking of which, I meant to ask to see your tattoo (well, actually it was more along the lines of folding my arms across my chest and arching my eyebrow sceptically and saying, 'Prove it'), but it was one of those moments we interrupted ourselves. In fact, I think it was when I interrupted myself by doing you-know-what, which you really don't have to apologise for (though I will again), as it was all me, and as you apparently didn't make as much of it as I did.

At least I know I've got Mrs. C -- and you'd better owl me at the weekend, if only to tell me what the pair of you said about me behind my back, as I need something to entertain me during my long date with paperwork! Though I knew that T-shirt was a mistake. I hadn't intended to wear it, but I noticed a tear under the arm of the one I wanted to wear, and as I'm rubbish at sewing charms, I had to go with the only other clean thing in my wardrobe. What didn't she like about it? Was it the slogan, or that it was too tight?

Hope you got everything wrapped up today that you needed to. I don't know if I can face another Ordered family reunion without you there to surreptitiously roll your eyes at Cousin Hester's giggling or to be passive-aggressive to our pet snake.

T

X

PS - I interrupted myself again. What I meant to say about tattoos above, and last night, is: If you were to get one, what design would it be, and more importantly, where would you have it done? I can't imagine you with Egyptian eyes over your nipples. Although, maybe that's because I haven't seen you in a mosh pit.

PPS - What's The Dundee Shuffle? Is it a dance? Only you'd have to be a Gryffindor to want to teach it to me.

* * *

23rd August, 1995

10.10am.

Dear T~

As I can feel the heat of your ferocious glare coming through the parchment (even Marmalade was looking a little singed when he arrived), I solemnly swear to try and call you T~ in future. Though everyone gets to do that. I'll have to see if I can find something that doesn't make you want to hex me into oblivion.

I'm sorry you had a bad day yesterday; you sound a little down? I've realised that for those few hours you were here, we spoke very little of work and concentrated on matters such as whether I could get any more embarrassed while you and Mrs. C~ discussed whether I was a sandalwood man or if amber suited me better. But I know Uncle Alastor is proud of what and how much you've achieved. However hard he tries to hide it.

You might have to help me get back in his good books again as I woke this morning to a three foot long lecture on cutting out the humorous remarks in my reporting, as it does absolutely no good to take a light-hearted view of a dire situation. I'll be working on a more serious disposition at our next family get-together on Tuesday, which means no rolling movements of any kind (and, by the way, I had something in my eye at the time -- both of them) and you're forbidden from passing notes under the table with the odds on how many times our neighbour Sev will say the word "potter" and sneer at the same time. It is strange how he seems to be so anti-wizards in that line of work.

There's a bit more buried in the Prophet today that I found interesting – particularly the introduction of penalties if anybody is caught offering employment to those now described as 'undesirables' under the terms of 'positive discrimination'. My friend in high places has really given this some thought and is determined, it seems, to leave no possible loopholes through which people can actually earn a living or keep some sense of worth. Despite this and Uncle Alastor's warning about taking unpromising situations too lightly, I'm equally determined to remain cheerful and that's in no small measure down to you.

I'd better get on with my packing and the few things I've still got to do here, although Mrs. C~ has persuaded me to stay on for what she describes as "a little snack to see you on your way." I'm bracing myself. I also think it was the slogan on your T-shirt – 'Pretty in pink, wicked in uniform' – that may have caused her to get the wrong end of the stick for a short while. I like to imagine she was worried for my sake, but all's well now I've explained that you do wear an actual uniform for work.

The Dundee Shuffle's a pub. Lots of people do seem to dance on the tables in it, which makes me think you'd like it. I certainly can't believe a Hufflepuff – especially you, T~ - would give up on anything, let alone a dance! Apart, possibly, from a Gryffindor, who last danced at a wedding many years ago, and it took several glasses of champagne to get him to do it then.

On that note, I'll bid you farewell and say I hope you're having an enjoyable Sunday. I've got one final postcard that might make you laugh, but don't feel you have to owl if you're busy. I'll see you Tuesday night, after all, and I don't want to keep inundating you with letters.

R~

X

As for the tattoo; I don't need to imagine what I'd get as I've got one. It's slightly more…subtle than Kirley's, shall we say? It's also not in the position his is (are two eyes not enough so that he needs four?), which means that I wouldn't have been able to prove it to you in public anyway.

I haven't given you-know-what (and I feel about fourteen referring to it like that, which is another good reason to forget all about it!) another moment's thought. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine for responding like that. So don't worry; it's completely forgotten!

* * *

23/08/95

4.44 PM

Dear Remus,

You'll be home now, so let's dispense with the extra vigilant vigilance, shall we? Normal security procedures still apply, obviously, so don't forget my 'stealthy' password. Only don't tell Mad-Eye. Or would he be more annoyed to know we've been referring to him as Uncle Alastor, I wonder? I think I might keep Great-Uncle Bumblebee, though let's hope he never turns up wearing yellow and black stripes, or I'll never be able to take another meeting seriously again.

Having an okay Sunday, thanks. Bit quiet, which I reckon's nice, only I keep thinking I'm more in the mood to be someplace livelier -- maybe with dancing on the tables. You wouldn't happen to know a place like that, would you? A pub? Though you'll probably want to spend the evening with Sirius and a bottle of Firewhisky between you, and I wouldn't want to do table dancing for just anyone.

Do I sound down? Maybe I should risk a three-foot lecture of my own from Mad-Eye by taking a leaf out of your book on keeping your chin up. I'm glad to have been a help to you, though I really can't see what I've done except abuse you for writing an initial. I do admire the optimism, and most of all the dignity, you bear everything with, even though I can't imagine how you do it.

If you don't want to talk about this, then tell me to remove my huge, Snape-like nose from your business, but as a friend I feel I should ask. What will you do? What have you done?

The 'positive discrimination' stuff in today's Prophet was a lot of what made yesterday such a totally shite day (my colleague Dawlish was another large part), as new laws mean briefings about what'll be expected of MLE in regards to them, and I won't go into it all because it won't help you with your quest for good cheer. But suffice it to say, I did not work my arse off for three years in Stealth and Tracking to conduct criminal investigations against decent people who don't care whether another person might be labelled 'undesirable,' people who see that the real monsters in this world are the ones who don't need a full moon's power to hurt others, but who are brazenly evil enough to act in broad daylight. You say it would never occur to me to turn tail and run, but more and more I wish I could.

And if I do sound down today, it's because I can't work out how someone can you-know-what/KISS! someone else for at least a minute, if not a minute and a half, without coming up for air once, and then not give it another thought!

I'll see you Tuesday. If it's such a bother to write, don't feel you must just to humour me.

Tonks

X

PS - I'm afraid this sounds more like I'm in a strop than down. Well...I am.

PPS - What is your tattoo of? As I can only assume you never intended to show me. Is it on your bum?

* * *

August 23rd, 1995

8.05pm.

Dear Tonks,

I got back a few hours ago to find both Sirius and Marmalade waiting for me with almost matching quizzical expressions. One was a lot easier to keep quiet than the other, as a handful of owl treats simply don't work that well on Padfoot. If the week's flown by for me, then it certainly hasn't for him, and this is the first chance I've had to slip away and read your letter.

And reread it.

I'm confused, Tonks. Puzzled. Tired, and not a little baffled because, for the life of me, I don't see how you can possibly think it's a bother to write to you or why you'd imagine I wasn't looking forward to doing so all the time I was listening to Sirius. I'm not sure what footing we're on any more; we've both said some things -- or, more accurately, we've both written them -- but when you came to see me it was all very light and easy and fun. Until the end of the night, anyway. When it seemed very clear to me that we're wonderful friends and that we'd both realised we should remain that way. Which, now I've thought it all through, seems very much for the best from your point of view.

But you're not happy. Perhaps anything else should wait until we're face-to-face so we can have one of those incredibly awkward conversations that I never thought I'd have again? Which should also tell you something about why I've obviously made a mess of this and why having regrets now is, perhaps, much better than having them later on.

In the meantime, I'm not feeling quite so positive about the new werewolf legislation since I got back to Grimmauld. The place does bring you back to a murky and mouldy reality. As long as I'm useful to the Order, then I can convince myself I'm doing something worthwhile, but I am concerned that others will react like my recent contacts, and then what use am I going to be? There's got to be a way around this, a way to fight it. I'd like to discuss it with Great-uncle Bumblebee (the name's stuck, I'm afraid; I just hope I can avoid calling him that!), but he's done more than enough for me and has far more serious things to worry about.

What does help, more than anything else, is reading your support. It's hard sometimes to talk to Sirius, who tends to fly into a rage because he's powerless to help. It doesn't do him any good at present. I know you're raging as well – and thank you for that – but I also know that you'll just listen and that means a great deal.

I think I'll leave it there. We'll be seeing each other Tuesday night, and I'd like to try and sort this out then.

Remus

X

I don't think I could ever compare your nose to Severus'. Thankfully.

The tattoo information can wait. But you're in the wrong area completely. Head north-west from there.

* * *

August 23rd, 1995

8.20pm.

Nymphadora,

Yes, I know I'm not supposed to call you that. I know this is only fifteen minutes after I said we should discuss this face-to-face. I also know I'm sending this on a goat postcard, which is totally inappropriate, but there's no parchment up here, and if I have to go down and get some, Sirius will want to know why I've been writing apparently urgent letters half the night. It's bad enough having to use his owl, Lord Lucan, who has been in the service of the Black family for many years and definitely considers himself a feather or two above the ordinary mail-carrier.

And if you want to know why I'm calling you Nymphadora, it's because it's very difficult to continue to call someone by their surname when you both seem to have moved a stage or two beyond that. You know -- after that same someone has kissed you, unexpectedly and rather lingeringly, in Mrs. Cuthbert's kitchen.

At the risk of sounding fourteen again, it seems a good idea to clear both this, and the air, before we see each other on Tuesday. Because I was under the distinct impression you regretted the whole thing and wanted it forgotten. As we seem to have slightly differing memories of events, mine is that you kissed me, and then I kissed you back. Admittedly, rather lingeringly. Which you didn't seem to be objecting to when Mrs. Cuthbert's chest appeared suddenly round the corner with the rest of her following close behind. At which point you said you said you had to go, Mrs. Cuthbert started to tell us the story of how her son and his future wife eloped after only knowing each other for two days, and you disappeared mid-sentence and left us both standing there. I can fill you in on the names of their children and the pet budgie sometime, if you like.

Somehow, the impression from that at the time was … confusing, to say the least. Then I thought things afterwards were fairly clear, but now I'm lost again. Perhaps you could enlighten me?

Confusedly and stroppily,

Remus

And it wasn't a minute, it was about twenty seconds. And I wouldn't say I've never thought about it.

* * *

23/8/95

11.35 PM

Dear Remus,

If we were face-to-face right now, I don't know whether I'd shake you or kiss you. Again. (The former for calling me Nymphadora.) Since the latter seems to be the source of all our confusion, it's probably best that we're not face-to-face. Even though it is pretty silly that you're in London and I'm in London and we're writing each other bloody letters. Lord Lucan agrees with me that it's a waste of ink and parchment. Or goat and sheep cards, in this case, although I do think it's probably much funnier to learn that a goat at sea's called Billy Ocean when it comes on a card with an amusing picture. Hopefully you'll feel the same about this sheep card, which I've also been holding onto for the most inappropriate moment. And here it is.

Right then. As it's been more than three hours since I heard from you, I'll assume you haven't changed your mind again and do want to sort this in writing before we see each other Tuesday. Since we seem to be confused on a number of points, I'll get right down to it, starting with the simplest:

You don't see how I can think you find writing to me a bother. Don't you? You keep apologizing for writing, as if it's an inconvenience, as if I'm bothered to write you! You don't seem to realize your letters mean just as much to me as you say mine do to you.

Which brings me to the bit that'll make us feel and sound fourteen again. I know you think about my age sometimes, how I'm younger than you and less familiar with the way the world works and the way people behave. So I'm a bit surprised that it hasn't seemed to occur to you that I, tender young thing that I am, might not have any more experience than you do at incredibly awkward conversations of this sort.

Yes, I kissed you, unexpectedly, in Mrs. Cuthbert's kitchen. And you kissed me, rather lingeringly, back. And I wasn't objecting. At all. It's just that when Mrs. Cuthbert interrupted, I was surprised. Surprised that I was kissing someone I haven't known that long, but who somehow already knows me better than most people I've known for years. Surprised to hear someone else talking about whirlwind romances. Surprised by how it all made me feel – which was overwhelmed. And that's not like me.

I wasn't running away from you, Remus. I just needed to step back and be quiet and think. And then all I could think about was how great Up the Duff night was, so I wrote to tell you that. What part did you not understand? What the hell made you think I wanted to be just friends with you? I was more worried you'd think I was pushing things too far, too soon, and that you were going to be the one running for the hills.

As we've not had the best of luck communicating with the written word, I'm going to leave off here and hope I've said enough to make it crystal clear this time. But in case you've missed it again:

I want to be more than friends. I hope you do too. Got it?

See you at the meeting.

Love,

Not sure how I should sign this, since you don't like Tonks and I don't like Nymphadora. Have you thought of a suitable alternative yet?

xx

You did say you'd never thought about the kiss! And you were actually TIMING it???

North-west of your buttock? That's probably not something I ought to be imagining till we've got this sorted. Maybe some of your clothes will come off in the mosh pit.

* * *

August 24th, 1996

1.15pm.

Dear Tonks, (Which I do like very much. I just think there are other variations I could like, too.)

I'm working on the name problem, but currently taking the safe option as you can see. At least I hope it is. Though I'm not sure the sheep or the accompanying joke on the front of this card is going to get me back into your favour again, even though I'm hoping you'll find it hard to resist the pleading look in its eye, which is remarkably similar to mine at the moment…

I'm certainly looking pretty sheepish anyway. Whilst trying hard not to smile and feeling something of a fool at one and the same time. Which is becoming something of a habit with these letters of ours – I make an idiot of myself, and you take my breath away with your honesty. Don't ever change, will you? I'm sorry for my grouchiness; put it down to the fact that I can't quite believe someone like you wants to exchange goat/sheep jokes (are we working our way through the entire animal kingdom?) on a regular basis with me, that it's all happened so quickly and so easily, and that I'm not going to hurt you because of who I am. You're not so far out when you talk about me being the one more likely to run for the hills.

It goes without saying that I would like to be more than friends, too, though going without saying things has caused so much difficulty that I've taken care to say it this time. But all this has just confirmed in my mind that we do need to talk this over face-to-face, instead of quill-to-quill, and take it all slowly. Don't start rearranging my limbs or defacing this card, but you are young, I'm not, and I want us both to be sure what we're doing and not rushing into anything we might regret later on. The future's uncertain for all of us right now and you were the one who was sensible enough to take a step back and think, while others of us had reverted to being fourteen and hopelessly insecure again. (On the plus side, at least I wasn't worrying about breaking out in spots.) But I really think we should follow your lead and take our time.

Talking of which, the meeting's scheduled for 7.00pm and I'll see you there. Is greeting you as Nymphie out of the question? (Joking apart, obviously we're going to keep this very much to ourselves for the time being, I assume.)

Remus

X

I've noticed you drop the words 'mosh pit' into the conversation at every opportunity. You think I don't know what one is, don't you? They're remarkably akin to a bear pit, I've always thought, but I expect I've been in more than you have...

And I was NOT timing it. I am well aware I said I'd never thought about it, but that was because I thought you wouldn't want to know that I've thought of it far too much!

Got it???

* * *

25/08/95

11.11 PM

Dear Remus,

Well, the meeting went pretty well, I thought. Except for that part where you met me at the door and called me Nymphie, and I nearly hexed you to Oblivion. The only thing that stopped me was not wanting to eliminate the sanest member of the Order. And I didn't want all that parchment and ink we went through to go to waste. Not to mention all the chocolate digestives I've fed our feathered messengers. Also, you more than made up for it with another, very nice nickname. And, um, in other ways I'm far too ladylike to mention in the first paragraph.

Seriously, after the past few depressing days at work, the meeting, I thought, was really encouraging. I mean, it's still a bit grim that we've got to do this, and hearing everybody's reports, knowing that we're not only up against the Death Eaters, but fear and scepticism and prejudice and fear from regular people as well, which in some ways are all the harder to overcome... I know you have more than your share of worries about your role in the Order, thanks to Umbridge and her damned 'positive discrimination', but you've no idea what your presence does for me -- and for everyone, I hope you noticed. Maybe it's because Mad-Eye's so bloody pessimistic and paranoid, and Snape can't say anything without a sneer and a general attitude of all our efforts being powerless against the Dark Arts and You-Know-Who, and everyone else is in varying degrees of being off their nut. But your calm and your humour keep me from throwing up my hands in despair. Not just because you're able to save us the hours and hours Mad-Eye would require to plot how the Order will see Harry safely back to school, but because the world doesn't seem so far gone when you're sat beside me to whisper the casual wry observation about Snape's nose or the amount of starch Emmeline's used in her shawl this week. Or to flirt with me. Or...other things I can't mention in paragraph two. With you, life still seems...normal.

You won't have noticed this since you weren't here last week to see him, but Sirius is a different person when you're in the room. He trusts you more than anyone, even Great-Uncle Bumblebee, I think, and even when you can't tell him what he wants to hear, you know just the right thing to keep him from flying off the handle. He was a bit stroppy that he won't be allowed to take Harry to King's Cross, but it would have been a million times worse if you hadn't been there to reassure him that Harry understands, that we'll keep him safe. Whatever comes of these terrible laws, Remus, don't ever doubt your worth as a good man.

Even if you don't have a bloody clue what a mosh pit is. Don't worry, you will on Thursday!

Are you sure you're okay with skipping Blues Night at the Hog's Head? I know you said we shouldn't let the passes from Nick go to waste (and I did not flirt with him to get them!), but I can't help feeling you really did want to go hear the goat band playing their horns. I'm happy with anything we do, so long as I get to see your tattoo!

Early shift tomorrow (Why do I keep getting those? I am not a morning person!) so I'd better get to bed. I should have been ages ago, but I couldn't sleep for thinking how lovely it was to see you tonight. Especially after the meeting when we found ourselves somehow alone. We're not going to apologise for you-know-what again, are we?? Thank Merlin everyone was too busy fighting over the apple pie to pay any attention to our disappearance and don't suspect a thing.

Love,

Dora

X

* * *

Wednesday, some time bloody o'clock in the morning

Moony,

As all you've done is hole up in your room since you've been back, doing Merlin knows what, I'm sticking this on your door with a Caterwauling Charm on to attract your absent attention. Making a noise like a cat in heat seems appropriate here, because I've got hot news for you, mate—

TONKS WANTS YOU.

I don't mean to discuss the sponsored goblin walk for orphans abroad that Bill was on about for hours, either. We're talking WANTS, as in fancies, lusts after, is smitten with, and is already thinking of what colour curtains you'd go for. From the dopey expression on her face (and the way she said, "stubble and forearms" when Mad-Eye asked her about the first thing you look for with suspicious characters), she's also working on a way to rip your clothes off while you're debating on stripes or flowers.

Funnily enough, there was the odd minute – like the fifteen the pair of you took getting a dozen Butterbeers out the pantry – when I thought she wasn't the only one. It's a long time since I've seen you do the smile-and-dither-but-perhaps-come-hither routine, but you don't fool me, you know.

Looking forward to hearing you avoid this over dinner.

Sirius

The Blacks don't avoid anything, in case you haven't noticed that, either. Might as well pick out a shag pile carpet while you're at it.

* * *

Padfoot,

I spent ten minutes in the pantry with Tonks discussing in great detail that same sponsored goblin walk you've so readily dismissed. No wonder they're moaning about the lack of support from the Wizarding world. As it is, I'm particularly interested in three of the participants called: "You Couldn't Be More Wrong," "What Would She See In Me, Anyway?" and "I Won't Be Discussing Any Of This With You Later On Tonight So Forget It Now."

Make dinner around eight. I may have to drop some sponsorship forms off first to a lady.

See you later, old friend.

Moony.

* * *

August 26th, 1995

3.00pm.

Dear Dora,

You're sure I can't call you Nymphie? I thought you were rather taken with it for the first thirty seconds when you seemed unable to speak a coherent word. Though admittedly that wand gesture suggested otherwise. 'Dora' it is then, as you didn't seem to object to that. Especially as the meaning of the name seems to fit you perfectly.

I'm afraid your theory that no one spotted our absence wasn't totally accurate, but it was only Sirius, and while he'll delight in making my life an absolute misery, take no notice off him or my apparent misery, because it means we're both enjoying ourselves. Especially take no notice if he starts reminiscing about Hogwarts, mentions the dating graph he once kept in our dorm, or says anything at all regarding curtains. It's a very unfunny joke.

It's strange you should use the word 'normal' with regard to the meeting. Sometimes I think that so few of the original Order are with us now, and it's easy to let doubts creep in when things don't appear to be going well or, as seems to be the case lately, when we gain a little and lose a little more. Everyone copes in their own way – and it is true that Mad-Eye's way, unfortunately, seems to involve remembering about twenty-seven passwords at the last count – but you just make me think that somehow the world isn't quite as crazy as it frequently appears. (Even though I still can't believe you once asked Severus how it felt to be able to smell the tea in China from Hogwarts – and lived to tell the tale.) I have to say that Umbridge and her legislation are about as far from my favourite topic of conversation nowadays as you can get, but we might have to discuss her more often so that I can choke again while you wonder if her little pearl earrings ever bang together because her mind is so narrow.

Which brings me to the part I've had about three goes at writing. If not four. I may have pulled several pieces of hair out as well, and destroyed a perfectly good quill from too much table tapping. Everything I say sounds so stilted and doesn't come near to what I want it to, but I'm going to try and be as honest as I can with you here. Part of me thinks I should apologise, part of me thinks that you need to think very hard about all this before we see each other again on Thursday, and part of me…

Part of me thinks to hell with all that.

Unfortunately, that's the part I am fairly sure I shouldn't be listening to. This all seems to be happening very fast, and I have always thought of you as my friend and part of me also thinks we're risking that friendship. While wondering how I could have been so blind to this from the start. I may need some time to think about it all myself as well as repair any bald spots that have recently appeared.

I can imagine you making that wand gesture again in exasperation (and it's not ladylike, Dora!), but you know I'm right. This isn't a world for unlikely relationships, and I don't feel either of us should be rushing into things, or making impulsive decisions, simply because life seems that way at present.

But, in case of doubt, and because I don't want any further misunderstandings -- I didn't intend to kiss you, I certainly didn't intend us to end up against the pantry door, and if I'd known that door knob was right behind you I could have spared you a bruise. I'm also still puzzled over why someone like you would give me the time of day, let alone kiss you like that.

But I can't regret it for a single minute.

Remus

X

You were actually very close to the tattoo at one point. Obviously it slipped your mind again.

The dishevelled look suits you. Puts me in mind of the mosh pit…

* * *

26 August, 1995

Dear Tonks,

I hope you don't think it's strange I'm writing to you, but I baked too many Cauldron Cakes to pack in the children's lunches when they go back to school, so I thought I'd send the extras to you, as you were looking a little flush last night at the meeting. Are you sure you're not coming down with a cold? Only I know they're working you too hard at the Ministry, and you spent so many late nights with Sirius last week while Remus was away. You need to look after yourself, dear.

Talking of Remus, wasn't it good to have him back with us? Sometimes I think he's the only rational one of us -- except for Dumbledore, of course.

And...I think he cares for you. Remus, I mean, not Dumbledore. You'll probably think I'm just a silly old woman, but I have seen enough romances begin in my lifetime to recognise these things. I noticed he'd been distracted and quieter than usual since he returned from Ambleside (Had you known that's where Dumbledore had sent him? You didn't look surprised when he gave his report), and a little low, which is so odd for him, as he's always got a smile and a cheering word for everyone, though I suppose with those horrible things that have been in the paper, he would be. But then you walked in, and he held his shoulders a little straighter, and some of those worried lines eased from his face, and he looked quite young and handsome. I don't think he took his eyes off you all night, not even during his speech, when I thought he was looking at you as if you were his anchor.

I'm not sure if you've noticed any of this, or if you've even thought of him. I know he's older, and a young woman like you probably notices young men more like, well, Bill. But if you ask me, a girl couldn't ask for a kinder, more attentive suitor than Remus. He's such a steadying sort of person, just the sort of man a woman wants in uncertain times like these.

And you're such great friends already, which is an important foundation for marriage, and you seemed happier last night than you did when he was away, and scarcely spoke two words to anyone else. In fact, I noticed you two got so wrapped up in conversation that you completely lost track of time when the pair of you went to the pantry for Butterbeer last night. It was a full fifteen minutes, did you know that? I know I was the only one to notice, so you don't have to worry.

If you are interested in him, you ought to bake him something scrumptious. The way to a man's heart, and all that. What about a sticky toffee pudding? Or a spicy plum crumble? My recipe made Arthur propose to me, you know, and I'm more than happy to help you make something if you're not that confident in the kitchen.

I do hope you don't think I'm putting my nose where it doesn't belong. I just want to see Remus happy, and I think you're the one to do it. Just another reason to look after yourself.

Enjoy the Cauldron Cakes.

Love,

Molly Weasley

x

* * *

26/08/95

5.45 PM

Wotcher, Remus!

You can call me Nymphie if I get to call you Remmy. Deal?

Oh, God, Sirius knows? I was thinking about dropping in on you gents tonight, but I don't think I could play it cool after the letter I got from Molly. Who also noticed our fifteen minute absence, as well as the fact that you, apparently, didn't take your eyes off me all night (well done, Sir Stealthalot). I can guess what Sirius might have said about curtains, as Molly tells me I should bake you the spicy plum crumble that prompted Arthur to pop the question to her. When I reply I'll say you had a run-in with a spicy plum crumble in Ambleside that's put you off that dessert forever, and that if I baked one, the only thing likely to crumble would be the relationship.

All that to say that if you think this is all happening too quickly between us, then you really ought to look at it from other people's perspective, because if it was up to Molly and Sirius and Mrs. Cuthbert, we'd be taking our brood to the Magical Menagerie for a pet budgie now.

I don't have a single doubt about us (and neither does Molly!) but if you want to take it slow, I'll go along with you -- as long as that doesn't mean we can't have those occasional moments where you press me against doors (the most well-earned bruise I've ever had) and dishevel me. Even though my gut tells me I ought to be doing all I can to secure you immediately, as I've the not-so-sneaking suspicion that if Molly were a single witch, she wouldn't be encouraging me to win your heart through your stomach. And you said Mrs. Cuthbert's husband was away last week? Suddenly I'm feeling less solicitous about her showing you favouritism at mealtimes! Do you reckon Up the Duff night was just a ruse to put you off "your young lady" by fattening her up, while she showed off her culinary skills?

If I've any hope of getting you into a mosh pit tomorrow night and finding your tattoo (When was I close to it? When your shirt came un-tucked and my hand somehow found its way underneath it?) I'd better close and get started on this paperwork which must be completed by midnight Thursday, or else...I'm not sure what, only that I'd really like to tell Scrimgeour where he can shove his sodding paperwork (like Umbridge's arse) because we sure as hell aren't going to stop Voldemort by pushing quills around on parchment, are we?

Can't wait till tomorrow! I've been saving some leather trousers especially for a Weird Sisters concert or especially hot date. And lucky me, I get to do both!

Love,

Dora

You think the meaning suits me...but I wonder, who takes their time with a gift?

* * *

26/08/95

6.12 PM

Dear Molly,

Wow, thanks for the Cauldron Cakes! You couldn't have better timing, as I've just come off a twelve-hour shift and my cupboards are bare. Now before you go in the kitchen and whip up a roast or a lasagne to send me (it's exactly what my mum would do after reading that first line), rest assured that I'm not eating Cauldron Cakes for dinner. I popped into Patil's for a curry on my way home. The Cauldron Cakes are dessert and, no doubt, fuel to get me through what looks to be an all-night date with...

...

...

...

...paper work.

I know, you were hoping I was going to say an all-night date with Remus, weren't you? That's tomorrow, actually. The date part, not the all night part. We just had our first date Friday, and he wants to move a bit slower than that, understandably. Only if you could, find some way to subtly say to him some of those things you said to me, about him being a steady suitor. Maybe the young and handsome bit, too. Merlin knows his ego could do with a bit of boosting with this bloody "positive discrimination" that's making it really hard for me to go to work without hexing Umbridge to oblivion.

Anyway, I'm dragging Remus to see the Weird Sisters tomorrow night (it was that or Blues Night at the Hog's Head), so I'd love your spiced plum crumble recipe, just in case the mosh pit (ask Bill) is an abysmal failure. Only swear you won't say a word about it to Remus!

Thanks again, Molly. You're a star.

Love,

Tonks

X

* * *

August 28th, 1995

4.40am.

Dear Dora,

I've abandoned all idea of sleep. Partly because I have to be up again in an hour and twenty minutes, and partly because I don't think I'll ever get the sound of the Weird Sisters performing 'Why Does Your Dog Only Bite Me?' out of my head ever again. Or was it your request for the Aberforth Spring Quartet's rendition of 'I'm A Moanin' In The Moonlight' that my ears and I are never likely to forget…?

By the way, it's now 4.50am. There's been five minutes of bemused head shaking by the writer, which has reminded me that the Order ought to check out exactly what Aberforth is serving with his Firewhisky nowadays, and five more minutes where I'm not sure if it was the room that was out of focus or me. It was quite a night, wasn't it? One of the best nights I've ever had, Dora – I've never laughed more or been embarrassed more OR laughed more at my own embarrassment - and all thanks to you. I'm putting it in writing in case you didn't quite get what I was saying when you were performing that last chorus of Billy Idol's 'Rebel Yell' with the whole – and I mean, the whole - of the bar. You know, the goats were possibly the most in tune. Who knew?

Which reminds me, I'm not quite clear on how we came to attend two such differing social occasions in the same evening. I thought wild Hippogriffs wouldn't drag you away from the Weird Sisters in full flight. Full throat? Well, whatever it was they were doing at various times, I can honestly say I've never seen a group of wizards perform before without getting cautioned for disturbing the peace. Unless it was when James and Sirius decided to re-enact the Muggle play 'Macbeth' and give a whole new meaning to stirring a cauldron, which I think Celestina Warbeck may have based her hit song on. You were quite right that I'd find it a very educational evening in the mosh pit and I have learnt that:

1. It is possible to clench your ears as well as your teeth.

2. I never knew it was possible to keep punching the air like the guest female singer (Gretchen Rogan, was it? Or Retchen Grogan?) did during that one routine. Frankly, if I'd have been the air, I'd have punched her back.

3. That man behind us who kept saying "I love you, Elvis" in my ear had, apparently, mistaken me for someone else. Security explained it all to him, along with the fact that you weren't someone called Cher, when he was removed during the interval. I think he missed some of the finer points when he was lying on the floor at our feet with those bottles clutched to his chest.

4. You're quite right that I have no taste, impartiality, or wisdom when it comes to judging the Sisters' music. But anything that kept Gretchen/Retchen on stage in that short, sparkly costume is fine by me. Somehow I got the feeling you were less than impressed with her, mostly from the way you kept yelling "Get off and leave it to the boys!" at frequent intervals.

5. Most of all, I've learnt that if I smile at you while being crushed together in the front row, we somehow end up at the Hog's Head as very late newcomers to a Blues Night like no other…

You'll probably tell me that you didn't learn anything at the Hog's Head, or you'll want to sue me for the damage I did to your feet while we were attempting that dance. I did warn you that dragging a man to his feet, particularly one who can't dance, was asking for trouble. Even so, I was a bit disappointed when we jointly fell over that goat – this is why I find dancing such a problem; you do all that turning to the left and then to the right, throw in a quite brilliant chasse and pivot on the right heel… and then a goat pops up. And - did you really accuse me of 'faking sway,' or had my ears still gone at that point?

Suffice it to say, nothing was faked throughout the evening, as I thought you must know. Which is rather the part where the euphoria has to stop, and I have to say some things you're probably not going to want to read and I don't want to write.

If I say we shouldn't have gone back to Grimmauld afterwards, I know I'm going to hurt you dreadfully, and that's the last thing in the world I want. Especially when you make everything we're fighting for make sense to me; in fact, crazy though it sounds, when I'm with you, I almost forget we are at war at all. But we are. Only a couple of days ago we agreed to take things slowly, and we both know that if Sirius hadn't woken up when he did that we probably wouldn't have stopped tonight. I'm unable to get past the fact that I'm being unbelievably selfish because there simply isn't any getting past it. Nor can I ignore the fact that this is all my fault, and it's easier to put this down on parchment because if I see you face-to-face I know that all my good intentions will fly away again the minute I do.

Dora. I heard what those boys said at the concert: "What's he got?" They might have been drunk and harsh, but you should be with someone your own age. I also heard what the man at the Hog's Head said to you, and, while it was fun to see what you did to his nose for sticking it into someone else's business, he had a valid point about werewolves. We are the stinking scum of the earth in most eyes, and, until times change, I have no right to involve you in what is my problem -- and mine alone -- to deal with. I can't argue about it, either, because there's no way round it.

I'm sorry. Truly. It's not enough, and I know it isn't, but I don't know what else to say. I'm praying I haven't effectively ruined our friendship, but I'm going to have to think things over for a couple of days and decide what's best to do.

I could make a feeble joke here, something about you at least getting to see my tattoo at long last, but I think all jokes are out right now. Dora. I meant everything I said. Everything I did. I'm just not sure they or I are right for you.

Thank you for the most wonderful evening. I hope you have some idea how much you mean to me.

Your friend,

Remus

X

* * *

28/08/95

6.15 AM

Dear Remus,

Really, you didn't sleep? Only I went straight to bed and dreamt about finishing what we started before Sirius came down for his midnight snack. He'd have been none the wiser that we weren't in the kitchen doing just the same if he hadn't caught you buckling your belt. Did you manage to convince him you were only showing me your tattoo?

I had a wonderful time with you, Remus. To repeat what I said to you on the steps of Grimmauld Place, when you kissed me goodnight: a really, very, truly wonderful time. The best date I've ever been on -- and that's including the one last week with Nick to The Grindylow Tank, which wasn't a date at all. Forget about the Weird Sisters -- although I hope never to forget the look on your face as Kirley crowd-surfed and those Egyptian eyes of his were suddenly looking down on you from on high -- I'd happily go to Blues Night at the Hog's Head every Thursday night for the rest of my life. Even you've got to admit it would be educational. Here's the top five things I learnt:

1. When the goats start soft-shoeing on tables, before you decide to join them, keep in mind that Aberforth's furniture isn't meant for anyone less sure-footed than a goat to dance on.

2. Following on that line, if you do lose your footing whilst atop a table, your best hope of not doing a face-plant is the thin, quiet man who can command a surprisingly booming voice to part the sea of gawping tavern regulars and is equally unexpectedly steady and strong when witches go careening into their arms. Accidentally. I swear to Merlin I wasn't throwing myself at you. That time.

3. Steel-toed boots are an Auror's best friend. On duty, and especially off, if you're planning on dancing at the Hog's Head. But I think the goats were the ones who did most of the damage to my feet. At least, I'm blaming them, and I think you ought to, as well.

4. Never tell a goat joke to a goat. They don't appreciate being the butt of jokes, as you found when you told old Sparkler the one about unemployed goats. Although I couldn't tell if it was the goat bit that offended him, or that he thought you were implying he wasn't pulling his weight as a bouncer. (I meant to have a look at your butt back at Grimmauld to check whether it was as bruised as your ego.)

5. A discreet and scarlet M for Marauder tattooed in the hollow of a man's hipbone is a million times hotter than Egyptian eyes around the nipples.

Okay, so that last one wasn't something I learned at the Hog's Head, but as we were thrown out early for insulting the help...Also, I thought our own private after-party deserved a mention. I'm sure when we try it again next Blues Night, I'll be able to list many more than five things learnt in Remus Lupin's room at Grimmauld Place.

That is...if you'll give us the chance of another Blues Night and another After Blues Night. I understand why you feel the way you do. I don't agree with you, but I do understand, even though you seem to think I don't. And it means a lot to me that you care enough about me to put me ahead of what you want.

Because you do want me, don't you? I'm sure of it. I saw it in your eyes, before you looked away in shame when those idiot kids at the concert and what that colossal arsehole at the Hog's Head said those hateful things about you...about us...and again when they lit up when I jinxed his nose. I felt it when you pulled me to you and put your mouth on mine and kissed me like a man drops to his knees and kisses the ground when he's been away too long from his homeland. I heard it when you whispered goodnight, as if it was the very last thing you wanted to say to me.

I know all these things about you, Remus. Which is why I'm so bloody frustrated that you haven't read between the lines to see that I love you.

...

I've stared at that for about ten minutes now, not from lack of sleep, or from having "Baaa-d to the Bone" stuck in my head, or from wanting to take it back but for trying to think of how to follow it. I don't think I can, except to say that I'm not for a second letting you give up on—

* * *

###

28/08/95

6.45am

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap._

Tonks threw the quill down in exasperation at both it and herself for their joint failure to come up with the right words in the right order for the most infuriating man _ever_, who was probably sat there right now telling himself he'd done the right thing. In her head persisted the image of pale hands tangled in her hair and intense longing on his face like the last time she'd seen him, while she was reduced to swearing under her breath at the tiny blobs of ink which had appeared on the parchment when she'd chucked the quill aside. She looked around for something blotter-like, ignoring the persistent background tapping that must be the bathroom pipes playing up again; she tried to do the same with the hollow, sickly feeling inside that had started the moment she'd read Remus' final lines.

_Blooming great idiotic git._

Him and her both. Her for not guessing he'd do this and him for thinking she'd let him. If only she was face to face with him again. Writing letters had seemed like an old-fashioned courtship in words, for their eyes only, which had tapped into a part of her she'd only been slightly aware of before, but now, suddenly, there was no way to say what she wanted to with just a quill.

He might be able to kid himself that they could take a step back in time to the flirty friendship of their early letters, but she wasn't going to pretend. Not after last night. Or this morning. Any of it.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. _

She resorted to another piece of parchment as a blotter, ending up with ink stains on both that were larger than the original blobs, and debated binning the whole lot. She'd written straight from the heart, which was how she'd always spoken to him, and yet on reading it through, it sounded as if she'd either swallowed whole the corniest Fifi LaFolle reject, or was aiming to be a modern Witch of the World, obsessed with jokes about a singer's tattooed nipples and getting a wizard's trousers off as quickly as she could to see a much more meaningful one in the shape of an M.

Bollocks. Surely he knew neither was really her?

_Tap, tap, TAP, TAP, TAP._

"Oh, for—" Tonks swung round in the direction of the bathroom and realised the noise wasn't coming from there. It was coming from the window in her hallway.

Coming, in fact, from the extremely harassed-looking bird perched on the window sill, literally banging his beak and head against the glass.

It was Lord Lucan, Sirius' brown owl that Remus had been using. Somehow, managing to give her an eye-rolling look down his beak that reminded her of his owner in a strop.

"I'm sorry!" Tonks hurriedly pushed the window up. "Why are you back, then? You've only just— Oy!" The owl had fluttered down and made straight for the kitchen without giving her a second glance. "You're supposed to give me a letter _before_ you get any treats, you feathered nutcase!"

But she was distracted from the bird when a thin and familiar shadow detached itself from the wall outside and a throat was cleared in what sounded like amusement. She froze; even her fingers, which had gone straight for her wand, halted mid-move as realisation struck. It seemed the owl hadn't come alone this time.

"Hello, Dora." The quick glance Remus gave her revealed nothing, least of all what he was doing there. "Can I come in?"

She nodded, as it was easier than speaking with her breath caught somewhere in her throat; only when he began to clamber through the frame could she make herself say, "I'd probably have opened the front door if you'd knocked."

"It's a matter of personal pride that I crawl through a lady's window at least once a day." Remus straightened up with some difficulty and grinned at her looking – _unbelievably_ – almost pleased with himself before their eyes met and the smile faded away. In the narrow confines of the hall, he seemed very near.

Tonks licked her dry lips and said the first thing that came into her head. "Delivering the morning papers, are we?"

"Ah, more like the mail, actually."

"I thought we were using owls for that?"

"We are. We were. We used to."

"Only your last one—"

"It's because of the last one that I'm here."

"Why, did you forget to mention the weather or something?"

"I have heard it's raining a lot in Scotland, but I was saving that for a more intimate moment."

"I thought all intimacy was well off the—"

"Which is why _I_ thought personal delivery of the next one would correct this impression."

"Yeah, well, it didn't sound much to me as though you were planning on a next—"

"_Dora_. Will you please stop talking when I'm interrupting you?"

She stopped. Glared at him to avoid showing anything she was feeling, least of all that she was remembering how they'd kissed only a couple of hours ago. Then she turned and walked back into her front room, leaving him to follow her or not. She decided she was even more furious than hurt, though it was close between the two. Everything he'd said and done had been understandable, right up until the I hope you have some idea how much you mean to me line, which had followed the _I'm going to have to think things over for a couple of days and decide what's best to do._

Apparently what she meant to him was someone who couldn't be trusted to know her own mind or make intelligent decisions without him doing it for her.

"What do you want, Remus?" He _had_ followed her and was standing rather uncertainly in the corner of her room, hemmed in by a leaning pile of Auror manuals on one side and the circular portrait of Artemisia Lufkin, first ever witch to become Minister of Magic in 1798 (and keen smoker of very long cigars, from the look of her), which had been a gift from Mad-Eye and for which she'd never found quite the right place on the wall.

By way of reply, he reached into a pocket and passed her a folded square of parchment.

She fingered the parchment but didn't open it. "I thought I'd already had the _Dear Dora_? Not sure I need a _Dear John_ as well.'"

"It's not." Remus hesitated. "This is more to save us both some time, I hope. To save me, really, if I'm honest."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean..." He took a breath. "...that everything I said in my last letter is what I felt I should say. But the minute it had gone I regretted it and hoped you were angrily writing a reply back, giving me hell and telling me that you didn't care about any of that and calling me names like you did at the Weird Sisters' concert. 'Emotionally-crippled wanker' is the one that comes to mind most," he added, with the faintest twitch of the lips. "That you'd say something breathtakingly honest again, convince me this could work because I want it to so much, and I'd write back and—" He paused, hesitated again. "It seems to me now that written words aren't enough. I'm hiding behind them, and you deserve more."

He'd echoed her own thoughts, almost word for word. Tonks unfolded the parchment and read what he'd written.

She looked up. Remus was watching her.

"You know I only called you an 'emotionally-crippled wanker' because you didn't appreciate the lyrics to _Purple Thursday_."

"I know." He nodded gravely. "You'll discover many men find it hard to let poetry into their souls."

Tonks didn't smile. "Do you really want this – _us_ – to work?"

"Yes." Remus' eyes held hers. There was no amusement in them now.

She bent her head and read the parchment again.

_I don't want to try to read between the lines any more, Dora. I want to know it all_.

She considered both the words and the man who'd written for a moment before moving towards her little table. If she didn't trust him and what she felt, then what had she been writing about all this time? She picked the quill up and added a few words to the parchment, then passed it to him and watched the slow smile spread across his thin face as he read.

"Remus," she said, as his arms came round her and she slid hers around his neck.

"Mmn?"

"When you sent that very first postcard – were you hoping for this?"

He raised his head and appeared to think about it. Stroking her face lightly with his fingertips, he said, "At the time, I thought I was just sending you a card." The smile grew wider. "But you might say I was hoping."

She laughed. "I was hoping too."

"That's a lot of hoping going on." His arms tightened round her.

"Do you think we— _Oh_."

"Mmn." Remus freed his mouth long enough to start to say something, and Tonks kissed him fiercely, crushing her lips against his and forcing back the words. She tugged at him at the same time as he tugged at her, which resulted in them falling sideways in a heap onto her sofa, where gravity and his arms combined to ensure she mostly fell on him.

"Weren't you saying something?" Remus smiled, lifting up his head and kissing her again, so deeply that she all but lost her senses. His eyes were dark and intense, and it took an enormous effort to remember what she'd been going to say and not give in to everything she felt for him.

"Just --for old time's sake..." Tonks paused as his hands slid under her top and wriggled sideways to pull at his shirt to return the favour. "Don't you think – _mmn_ – we should send the occasional letter? To keep our hand in?"

His eyebrow quirked upwards in amusement, and she felt herself redden as she realized just what she'd said and where his hand was resting under her top. Then he slid his free hand into her hair and kissed her very gently on the tip of her nose.

"I think you're both wonderful and beautiful, Nymphadora Tonks," he said, "and as you asked so nicely, I solemnly swear to keep my hand in."

She compressed her lips together, spluttered, gave up, and laughed.

"Come here," Remus said, in a low, caressing murmur Tonks determined no one but her would ever hear again, and pulled her down to his chest once more.

Before all rational thought left her, she caught sight of the piece of parchment he'd given her, now lying crumpled on the carpet. Before she buried her face in his soft hair, she read her own scribbled words.

_They say actions speak louder than words._

* * *

28/08/95

9.00am

Dear Remus,

Can we do that again yet?

Love,

Dora

XXX

August 28th, 1995

9.05am

Dear Dora,

It will be my absolute pleasure.

Love

Remus

Xxx

P.S Could you get that owl out of here first? He doesn't seem to have grasped our new, more direct arrangement…

* * *

_The End_

_Reviewers get their very own letter of thanks from both authors and Remus. If he's not too busy, of course. ;)_


End file.
